


i may not love you but i can’t stop thinking about you

by tousled



Category: DreamWorks Dragons (Cartoon), How to Train Your Dragon (Movies)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Confessions, Eavesdropping, F/M, One-Sided Attraction, Self-Worth Issues, Unreliable Narrator, set during rtte
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-17
Updated: 2020-04-17
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:40:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,181
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23696335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tousled/pseuds/tousled
Summary: Astrid accidentally eavesdrops on the sewing club and learns something that shakes up her world.
Relationships: Astrid Hofferson/Tuffnut Thorston
Comments: 4
Kudos: 13
Collections: HTTYD RarePair Bingo





	i may not love you but i can’t stop thinking about you

**Author's Note:**

> AHHHHHHH ok... so mentally I have an entire fic planned out for this that's like. Probably super long and stuff, but my ideas are kind of vague and based on the song Give Me Love, Give me Life by Rodger Hodgson, which I am obsessed with, particularly the line that's the title. I really really want to write more, about the ideas I set up in this fic bc ahhhhh so good, but I'm feeling kind of wish washy and I'm working on other stuff now so I just wanted to post this to share first up. 
> 
> I might write more in the future! I hope to! No promises though. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy and please comment if you'd like to hear more about my ideas surrounding this fic/etc.

Astrid’s doing her normal rounds, checking The Edge’s defences when Hiccup corners her by the western most hidden pot of monstrous nightmare gel. For a moment she grips at her axe handle, startled and not particularly relieved when she realises it is Hiccup. There is something wild lately about Hiccup that unsettled her. It even scares her a little, something off kilter that Heather says he’ll get over, that Ruff thinks is probably scurvy. She keeps putting these strange yellow sour fruits in all Hiccup’s food when he’s not looking. 

“Do you know where the sewing club meets now?” He demands. It is an expectation instead of a question. Astrid does, but only because Tuff invited her to try Fishlegs’ pumpkin scones before Snotlout ate them all and not because anyone expects her to do needle point. 

“No.” Astrid says. No one has had a break since the last Dragon Hunter attack, a few hours chatting and darning socks is not a drain on resources. There are clothes to be patched and probably gossip to sooth nerves. Not everyone thinks it’s fun to count logs and arrows, or to sharpen knives. 

“Well, if you see them, let them know I  _ urgently  _ need to speak to them.” Hiccup replies. He is terse, worried and Astrid opens her mouth in hope she can say the right thing again but it’s lost to the curve of his shoulder. 

Once upon a time, Astrid would have believed the “ _ urgently _ ,” but now she’s not so sure. It’s undoubtedly urgent to Hiccup, but whether that perspective has any bearing on the real world is another matter. Still, Astrid finds herself drifting towards the sheltered little clearing the sewing club has claimed. It is the remnant of an old typhoomerang burn; different wildflowers blooming constantly since they settled The Edge. One side is sheltered by strong old pine trees and the caves behind it have an overhang that provides a little extra protection without having to go into the cave itself. 

It is a nice day, crisp that a brisk walk doesn’t make Astrid overheat but the sun warm enough that the sewing club is obviously sitting outside from the noise. Their chatter, whilst undecipherable, is stilted, and worries Astrid a little. Maybe Hiccup had found them, disrupting their peace. Her hand balls into a fist for a moment, mad and unsure but she takes a breath and lets go. Hiccup doesn’t  _ mean  _ to be like this. It’s just, he doesn’t think. Astrid steps closer, hand resting against the curling bark of an elm when a sob rings out, startling her and several birds in the trees above. She forges onwards. 

“You know what, fuck her honestly.” Snotlout’s voice rings out. It’s taut, sharp. Astrid stops. 

“You say that about  _ every  _ girl.” Tuff whines, voice stuffy and almost unrecognisable. He sniffs, loud enough that it subsides Astrid’s guilt at eavesdropping for a moment. If they’re being this loud, surely it’s not her fault. “At what point do  _ you _ just give up on girls all together?” 

“Good question.” Snotlout agrees, boastful like he’s about to say something stupid. “Girls can’t get enough of all this, I’m just too man for them.” 

“We’re not talking about you, Snotlout.” Fishlegs chastises. He sounds like a disproving mother, clucking at her children’s bad manners and Astrid pushes forwards once more, thinking it’s as good a time as any to reveal herself. A joke about being “too man” for women on her lips when Snotlout barrels on, stopping her dead in her tracks. 

“But we  _ get  _ it.” He grumbles. “Astrid’s so perfect, blah blah, she does eyebrow curls and has biceps the size of - I don’t know, a night terror - she could bench press a Dragon Hunter. She personally hung every single star in the sky and does fifty seven laps of the island a day, and doesn’t brush her hair but looks like a Valkyrie.” 

“I do not sound like that!” Tuff yelps. 

“Snotlout.” Fishlegs warns. 

“Eyebrow curls aren’t even a  _ thing _ !” Tuff adds, affronted. 

“Oh  _ you  _ would know.” Snotlout shoots back. Tuff squawks. 

“And everyone knows the stars were formed by the sparks from Muspellheim! You’re just making stuff up.” Tuff’s voice goes an octave higher and Astrid would suspect Snotlout is doing it on purpose but  _ by Odin’s beard, what.  _

“Snotlout’s like just being hyperbolic,” Fishlegs offers, “and he doesn’t  _ get  _ girl problems like this. His girl problems are more about them thinking correctly that he’s annoying.” 

“Hey!” Snotlout says. There’s a pause where all Astrid can hear is her own breath, stilted. Her hand feels numb where she’s dug her fingers into the elm tree and her feet won’t listen to her, won’t move. “Well, it sounds like something you’ve said. It might as well have been. It sucks, but she’s never going to love you like you love her, so you know, fuck her.” 

“I know.” Tuff says, small, sad,  _ resigned _ . 

Astrid stumbles back, narrowly missing a stick that would have crunched loudly, giving her away. She catches herself against another tree, numb hand stinging with pins and needles, and Fishlegs’s voice is soft and comforting even if she can’t hear the words anymore. Taking a moment to collect herself she lets the chatter fade to background noise before carefully, avoiding any and all sticks, taking off towards the clubhouse. 

Without a dragon the walk to the clubhouse from the sewing club’s little hideout is enough time to overthink, too many thoughts at once. Hiccup’s terse commentary, his lack of courtesy, to Tuff’s soft resignation of his situation, of Snotlout’s sharp  _ fuck her.  _ It’s too much to sort, connections drawn where objectively there are none and she needs Heather to draw out the threads and make sense of it. It’s almost lunch time, so it’s likely she’s in the clubhouse, working on her island maps until whatever stew-like concoction is cooking is ready. 

But, Heather isn’t alone, Ruff sitting close, their knees turned into one another, pressed together. Astrid stops, unsure. She’s interrupting this too, and she feels off kilter, wrong. She must make a sound, though, because they look up. 

“Eavesdropping?” Ruff asks, cynical, sharp, and for a moment Astrid’s stomach drops. Does she  _ know _ ? But of course she can’t - she means now, Astrid standing in the shadow of the doorway, hovering. 

“No.” Astrid says. Ruff’s look of disbelief is not unexpected. “I just wanted to talk to Heather, but I don’t want to interrupt.” 

“What’s up?” Heather asks, turning towards Astrid, open and kind, and Astrid can’t admit she was actually eavesdropping on the boys and that she knows Tuff’s in love with her with Ruff sitting there. 

“It.” Astrid starts, unsure. “It doesn’t really matter anyway. I’m sorry for disturbing you.” 

Heather calls out, but Astrid waves her off. She needs to  _ think,  _ to try and clarify this stupid mess of anger at Hiccup, of confusion and guilt, and wrongness. She doesn’t need to think at  _ all.  _ Astrid heads to the beach, whistling for Stormfly. When she finally comes, distracted from a haul of fish Hookfang is presiding over and not particularly wanting to share, Astrid loops her arms around Stormfly’s neck. A moment later they’re off, breakneck speed to lap the island as many times as it takes. 

Heather finds her hours later curled up in a sentry post, sun dipping down to kiss the ocean, sky pink. They sit in silence for a few minutes, Astrid stewing in all the conflicting emotions in her stomach as Heather picks the right words to say. Astrid  _ knows  _ it’s not easy for her either, but sometimes she wishes she could have Heather’s confidence in saying the wrong thing, too. 

“What’s up that you couldn’t tell me in front of Ruffnut?” Heather asks. 

“I was eavesdropping, kind of.” Astrid says. Heather goes stiff for a moment and Astrid turns to look at her. “On the sewing club. Hiccup wanted to speak to them, like something was apparently urgent, but not urgent enough to tell me. And I just wanted to make sure that he wasn’t bothering them, but they were loud and I heard something I probably shouldn’t have.” 

“Oh.” Heather says. She looks both relieved and tentative. Her hair is loose, ink spilling out onto her shoulder and Astrid wonders what things she didn’t want Astrid to hear between her and Ruff. If it’s just Astrid on the outside, too uptight and too bossy and too  _ much _ , again. 

“Are we all little groups?” Astrid asks, before Heather can add anything. She looks down at her hands fisted over her knees. “You and Ruff, and the sewing club, and I guess Hiccup and me. But Hiccup is different now. Angry, resentful. Participating in a war because it’s personal for him now, running on ahead doing what he wants like he always did. When we were kids I used to be so mad at him, because dragon training was a joke to him, what was happening to Berk a chance to prove himself to his father instead of something  _ serious _ . I don’t even know if he understood how badly his antics hurt Berk during dragon raids. He says he’s one of us, but he never even tried.” 

“The girls can be a group.” Heather offers, careful. Astrid wouldn’t tackle the Hiccup stuff if she didn’t have to either, so she understands. “You were welcome to talk with us.” But, Heather’s wrong. Ruff doesn’t like Astrid, she’s made that clear with words and expressions and actions. Astrid shrugs. It’s not the same anyway. Whatever is between Ruff and Heather is different than Astrid and Heather and that's _ fine.  _ Things are allowed to be different. Astrid’s person is focused on revenge fantasies right now and, really, she should have known she was going to have to keep doing it on her own. She always has to do it on her own. 

“Tuff’s in love with me.” Astrid says. It still feels weird, wrong. She doesn’t understand how or why. Snotlout  _ said  _ it, and agreement had come from Tuff’s own mouth but it doesn’t make any  _ sense _ . Tuff is just normal to her. Annoying, and thoughtful and  _ Tuff.  _ Like he is to everyone. 

“Well, yes.” Heather agrees. There’s a pause, like she expects something more and Astrid feels gobsmacked and stupid. “Did you not know?” 

“How did you  _ know _ ?” Astrid exclaims, turning fully to face Heather. “He’s not -“ she screws her hand up in frustration, dropping it to the wooden floor of the sentry post with a thud, unsure of the words she wants, “he doesn’t treat me like  _ that! _ ” 

“Like what?” Heather asks, but Astrid shutters off. Heather  _ gets  _ it, because Heather has been on the end of all the boy’s flirtations - even Tuff has perked up and smiled and flirted, and he  _ never  _ did for Astrid - she’s had Snotlout in her face and Hiccup’s undivided attention and Fishlegs writing her horrible  _ poetry _ . 

Once, Astrid had flirted back to Snotlout after one too many grotesque comments and it was funny, for the afternoon. Honeybun and sweetie pie, and Snotlout’s revulsion at being at the other end of the situation. It was funny until it made Astrid feel sick. Even the sense of satisfaction at the irony, of getting to laugh at his discomfort instead of feeling uncomfortable soured. Being on this end was just as bad as being on the other. 

“Like..” Astrid doesn’t know how to describe the feeling of Hiccup at fourteen leering at her during dragon raids when he’s supposed to be helping Gobber, of older Berkain’s whispered comments they think she can’t hear about her skirt, her legs. Of Snotlout’s excessive, overbearing flirting that amounted to ownership declarations, of even Dagur’s strange comments and referral to her, even when he was making sure she was locked up with the gang so the Dragon Hunter’s looks where only looks. 

“Like a thing.” Heather offers when words won’t form in Astrid’s mouth. It feels so small,  _ a thing _ , too small for such a big feeling, for it to be everything containing her, trapping her. It’s exactly the right phrase. 

“Like an object.” Astrid agrees and sinks back into sitting properly to wipe aggressively at her eyes. They sting, and her throat feels dry and scratchy and like that’s the only thing that’s keeping her heart down. 

Heather reaches out and curls an arm around Astrid’s shoulders, tugging her in. Astrid lays her head on Heather’s shoulder, tucking her own arm around Heather’s side. The sun is finally setting, the last rays of light spanning across the ocean. 

“It’s not love, to be an object someone owns.” Heather murmurs and Astrid wants to ask how on earth does she know that, but then she thinks about Heather and Ruffnut’s knees pressed together and doesn’t ask. 

“Are you sure?” Astrid asks but she doesn’t want an answer. Heather’s  _ right,  _ she’s always right but at the same time it feels wrong. Attraction is getting stared at, and  _ wanting  _ and possession. Or at least, that’s how it’s always been with everyone else.


End file.
